"No," you gasped, but it came out more like a maybe with extra breathlessness. First date. First. Date. You had standards. Or at least, you pretended to, when you weren’t currently dry-humping a man who smelled like whiskey, leather, and the kind of trouble that left you walking funny.

Dean’s smirk was a sin wrapped in a dimple. "So you’d rather just rub up on me like a cat in heat in my baby’s backseat?" His fingers flexed on your thighs, pulling you tighter against him. "Because, sweetheart, I ain’t complainin’—but the way you’re ridin’ me right now? C’mon the real thing would be twenty times better."

You huffed, but the sound turned into a choked moan when he rolled his hips just right, the denim of his jeans scraping against your clit through the thin fabric of your panties. Thank God for skirts. "Shut. The hell. Up," you hissed, burying your face in the crook of his neck. The scent of him—gunpowder, sweat, and that stupidly good cologne he swore he didn’t wear—clogged your brain like a shot of cheap whiskey. Your nails dug into his shoulder, the other hand yanking his off your hip and bringing it up to your chest. "Touch me."

Dean’s laugh was dark. "Damn, you’re a handful." But his palm was already cupping your breast through your shirt, thumb circling your nipple like he’d mapped the damn thing in his sleep. You arched into him with a sound that was half gasp, half fuck it, and his cock twitched beneath you, thick and demanding. "Bossy little thing, aren’t you?" His lips trailed up your throat, hot and wet, like he was branding you. "Kinda love it, though." His teeth grazed your earlobe. "Feel like you’re just usin’ me to get yourself off."

"Mhm. And?" you shot back, rolling your hips down on him again, because fuck, the friction was obscene.

"And," he rumbled, "that’s the hottest damn thing I’ve heard all week." His free hand slid up your thigh, fingers slipping underneath the hem of your skirt. "But if you keep doin’ that, I’m gonna cum in my jeans like a loser, and nobody wants that."

You grinned, wicked and breathless. "I want that."

Dean groaned, his head falling back against the seat. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

With his head tossed back against the seat, you took full advantage, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat. The stubble scraped against your lips, and you felt the way his body twitched beneath you, his cock jerking like it was begging for attention. "Fuck—okay, jokes over," Dean groaned, his voice rough and needy, "Please, please let me fuck you." The whine in his voice was almost cute—if it wasn’t so damn hot.

But you weren’t giving in that easy. Hell no. Instead, you shook your head, a smirk playing on your lips as you grabbed his hand off your chest and guided it down to between your legs. Dean’s breath hitched when his fingers brushed against the soaked fabric of your panties, his lips parting in a way that was half shock, half smug. You let go of his hand, giving him free rein, and damn did he take it.

His fingers slipped beneath the lace, finding you already dripping for him, the heat of you practically burning his skin. He didn’t waste a second, dragging his fingers through your slit like he was memorizing every inch of you. Then, with a smirk that was pure, unfiltered sin, he pulled his fingers free, glistening with you, and brought them to his mouth.

"Fuck," he muttered, his voice thick as he sucked them clean, his tongue swirling around his fingers like he was savoring the finest damn whiskey. A satisfied hum rumbled in his chest, and you could feel the way his cock pulsed beneath you, like it was approving of his actions. "Sweet as pie," he murmured, his voice dripping with approval, before his hand dipped back into your panties, his fingers finding your clit like it was the only thing in the world he wanted to touch.

The second his fingers made contact, you were done for. Your mouth fell open, a broken gasp escaping as your eyes fluttered shut, your hips rolling against his hand like they had a mind of their own. Dean watched you with a hunger that was almost feral, his fingers working you with a skill that had you seeing stars. "That’s it," he rumbled, his voice dark and encouraging. "Ride my fingers, sweetheart. Show me how bad you want it."

And God, did you ever.